Page 30 of Love at First Fright

Charlie’s heartbeat, steady and strong, echoed through the space between us.

I could get used to this.

Though already, I felt the drain. Possession took energy. A gentle but persistent tug, like water circling a drain. I wouldn’t be able to maintain this forever. Another hour, maybe two if I pushed it. After, this would leave me weak for a long while.

But right now, wrapped in warmth and the scent of Charlie’s skin, I didn’t care.

Charlie nudged the kitchen door open with his hip and flicked on the light. “Right. Let’s pray they’ve left us some sort of food.”

He set me on the kitchen island. Cold granite pressed against my paws, and I kneaded it automatically, claws extending. Charlie’s bag lay abandoned by the door, contents spilling out. Wires. A battered notebook.

A granola bar.

Charlie followed my gaze and laughed. “That’s mine, not yours. Don’t give me those eyes.”

What eyes? I didn’t even know what expression the cat wore.

But Charlie relented, tearing open the wrapper and breaking off a small piece. He held it out, and I sniffed delicately. Oats. Yogurt coating. Sweet and artificial. Not remotely appetising to a cat, but I took it anyway because his fingers were right there, warm and long and lovely and—

God. This was pathetic. I was pathetic.

Dead for however-many years and reduced to this: a ghost possessing a cat, pining over a stranger’s fingertips.

“I’m glad you came along,” he said. “You’re much better company than Brad.”

Yes, I wanted to say. I’ll stay with you. Pet me. Cuddle me.

But the cat only purred.

Charlie’s hand returned to stroke my ears, and I melted into it, eyes half closing. His touch sent sparks through the cat’s nervous system, grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt since—

The void where my death should have been gaped open again. No answers. Just static.

“You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Charlie murmured. “You’re perfect.”

Perfect.

The word lodged somewhere in my chest. Or where my chest used to be. The cat’s chest. Whatever.

Charlie abandoned me to rummage through the cupboards, eventually producing a tin of salmon. “This’ll have to do. I prefer tuna, myself. Do you like salmon?”

He found a chipped porcelain bowl in one of the lower cupboards and scraped the salmon into it. He set it on the floor, and I hopped down from the counter with feline grace I definitely didn’t possess as a human.

The fish tasted even better than expected. Rich. Oily. I devoured it in quick, hungry bites, barely pausing to breathe.

God, I missed eating.

Missed it desperately.

Three meals a day. I’d taken it for granted when I’d been alive. Complained about my mum’s overcooked vegetables, ate mainly instant noodles once I’d moved out, skipping lunch to rehearse with the band. What I wouldn’t give now for burnt toast. Cold pizza. Anything that required teeth and a functioning digestive system.

Being dead meant never tasting anything. Never feeling full. Just the memory of hunger, phantom and persistent, that no amount of manifesting could satisfy.

But right now, in this borrowed body, the salmon filled the cat’s stomach, gloriously real and substantial.

I licked the bowl clean.

“Good, yeah?” Charlie crouched beside me, chin propped on his hand. That grin—soft, genuine, transforming his entire lovely face. “You were starving, weren’t you? Poor thing.”